like breathing was easy
by myrks
Summary: she is watching Jeopardy with Soul when it hits her: she doesn't want to lose this / introspective, Maka-centric


_**like breathing was easy**_

by myrks

prompt: parallels and intersection

Disclaimer: I do not own Soul Eater, Two and a Half Men, or Jeopardy.

* * *

Maka isn't afraid of dying.

Or, at least, she doesn't think she is. Not with the way her mother's praise in her head sounds, the light tappings on her shoulders, the careful rearranging of her weight all spelling a mix of pride and trepidation.

"This way," her mother suggests (commands), voice (thin, harsh) professional; her hands attach themselves to her daughter's hips and tug, and Maka adjusts herself accordingly, obedient. Her mother plucks at a few more strings, a dutiful marionette. She catches her daughter's eye, hard, and her mouth tilts into a smile, soft.

"You're doing fine, Maka," she murmurs, lips disappearing into a thin frown. "You're doing just fine." Maka fidgets.

She swallows.

* * *

Her mother is harsh at her best, absent at her worst. She leaves on long, long trips, with or without her husband, and never with her daughter. Maka knows not all of them are for work, but they never talk about it. And she waits.

Her mother comes home with stories tumbling like jewels from her lips, and Maka catches them with small, eager hands, all of them of triumph and most of them of her. Her mother tells of her victory in Munich (her enemies were insultingly weak), of her leadership near Charleston (the locals were ever so grateful), of her recon work somewhere in Peru (which, of course, she can't really talk about, it's all very confidential). There is a certain tone to her mother's voice that makes her stories fundamentally different from those of her father: she speaks slowly, carefully, almost analytically. She acts like her story is absolute and doubting her is out of the question.

Even as a little girl, Maka knows better than to take it at face value. As she gets older and older and her mother leaves more and more, questions trickle into her faith, soft willowy voices whispering disbelief into her ears, her toes, the base of her spine.

Her father gets drunk one (many) night(s) and holds his arms out to her, wailing (_"Makaaaaaa don't you love meeeeee"_). Disgust pools in her throat; she blinks heavily and tells him, in a moment of clarity and honesty, "I love you. I just don't trust you."

Her father is shocked to silence, arms still splayed wide. Maka blinks, blinks again, then scurries up the stairs, little feet slapping against the wood. She pauses at the top when she hears the door open. Her mother walks in.

Maka fingers the base of her throat and wonders why the feeling hasn't changed.

* * *

Her mother has told her time and time again that the most important value is bravery.

"Always keep a sense of self-preservation," she intones, as if it were ever that simple, "but still take chances in a fight. Once the opportunity has closed, you'll never get that same one back again."

"But Mama," Maka asks, eyes wide, fingers clenching and unclenching in her skirt, "don't people die doing that?"

For a moment, her mother is far, far away. "Oh, Maka," she breathes, as close to wistful as she's ever seen her, "you can't live your life being afraid of dying."

* * *

.

* * *

.

* * *

There are boxes in the living room, most empty but some full. There is still work to be done to move into the apartment, but they've been unpacking all day and the couch looked very inviting.

They're watching reruns of _Two and a Half Men_ and neither of them really like it, two awkward kids on a too-big couch, clad in packing tape and pajamas. They've been partners for eight days.

"I'll trust you," Maka says suddenly, as the TV breaks into commercials; she stares at it steadfastly. "But I won't love you."

Soul doesn't say anything. As the moments pass, Maka becomes more and more fidgety, and eventually she breaks, turns to him , "Soul - ?"

He turns slightly toward her and puts his finger to his lips: _be quiet. _He shrugs and says, "The show is back."

At the next break, Soul gets up; he wanders back a few minutes later with a grin and a bowl of kettle corn.

* * *

.

* * *

Soul is sweet at his best, lonely and self-depreciating at his worst. As she watches him carefully inspect her leg, she wonders where exactly protectiveness falls on the scale; she thinks somewhere towards the top.

He starts at her knee (_"does it hurt here?"_), trails down to her calf (_"here?"_); when he gets to her ankle, she gasps, a quick, shallow intake of breath. He glances up at her (_"okay?" and she nods_), then begins to gently twist it with practiced ease.

"Well," he says, hands and eyes still on her foot, "it's not broken. If it was, you'd be screaming just about now."

Maka snorts, "is that your official prognosis , doctor?", and wiggles her toes in his face with a grin.

Soul flashes her his teeth, half as a smile and half as a warning, and sets her foot down on their living room floor carefully, like it's made of glass. "I'll get the first aid kit," he says, and leaves the room before she can thank him.

Maka stares at her foot, wiggles her toes again. Sighs. Gets up, limping, and follows him down the hall.

* * *

Later that night, she is watching _Jeopardy _with Soul when it hits her, mid-laugh: she doesn't want to lose this. Not their lumpy couch or their kettle corn, not his smile or his insistance that she elevate her ankle.

And for the first time in years, Maka is terrified of dying.

* * *

Two days later and her ankle is still swollen. Between the swelling and the clunky bandage that Soul insists she wear, she cannot fit into her favorite boots, and takes to wearing flip flops instead.

She is hobbling out of the kitchen when she catches him at it: his brow furrowed, mouth twisted, eyes trained on her foot. Maka puts down her glass of juice and her book on the coffee table and flops down on the couch next to him.

Maka leans close enough to him that she can feel his breath on her cheek. She flicks him in the forehead.

"Hey!" he complains, vindictive and whiny; he rubs below his hairline as if though it actually hurt (_it didn't_). "What was that for?"

Maka purses her lips. "You were staring at it again," she states, lifting her foot like the act itself is proof. "I keep telling you I'm fine."

His eyes catch hers, soft, and his mouth twists into a grimace, hard.

"I was just staring at your fat ankles," he sighs, mock confidence in every word, and even as she slaps his arm and fumes, she wonders why he bothers. She sits shock still, book in hand; he falls against her, all achy muscles and stretched-out boy limbs, awkward hands settling nowhere, long, nervous fingers tapping at his knees. Like this, with his side attached to hers like they aren't separate people at all, it almost feels like a challenge. Then she feels the _thump, thump, thump _of his heart and the flutter of his pale eyelashes against her shoulder and decides it's more of an apology.

She swallows.

* * *

And Maka learns that trust is a much more important value than bravery.


End file.
